Chapter 736: Act 93 – The Tides of a Millennium
The urgent bell tolled within the Lion’s Palace, summoning the monks from the sanctuary, who rushed barefoot onto the pure white marble, arriving at the Iron Heart Square. Above the city of the lion, the clouds gathered, and rolling dark clouds descended from the horizon.
The great magic tide indeed stirred as Brendel had anticipated, sending ripples of magic from the Ten Cities to the Shimmering Sea, from the mechanical realm of Hazel’s people to the far eastern Cloud Hanging Mountains, awakening every soul.
Everyone halted their tasks, gazing upward in shock at a cryptic blue hue crossing the pitch-black sky, glistening like dawn, as if a curved arc pierced through the clouds, crossing half the sky to strike at the vaulted heavens above them.
At that moment, the astrologers of Vaunte felt a wave of anxiety; the sea of magic roared violently, and every saint inside the prayer room, devoutly beseeching their gods, struggled to calm their inner turmoil.
The dark clouds obscured the starlight, and as darkness swept across mountains, plains, glistening lakes, and undulating forests from west to east, the order columns inside every temple across the vast land of Vaunte began to illuminate one by one.
Martha’s Tiamat Rule sent out a warning to all, heralding the arrival of an era of chaos.
In Iron Heart Square, high-ranking bishops gazed at the dramatic changes in the sky, their faces displaying indescribable expressions. Some murmured among themselves, but more had already begun to turn back.
“Go to the Grand Hall, ignite the Order Crystals, and issue a notification to other temples—”
A booming voice echoed across the square. The first drops of rain fell from the sky, and suddenly, the temperature plummeted. Everyone turned back; behind them, the bell tolls of the city resonated.
Meanwhile, across the ocean, the Bud people floated in the sky, several cities gliding slowly through the clouds. In the pitch darkness, lightning occasionally illuminated the silver spires of those towers.
In Onass, the astrologers emerged from their white towers one by one, those grand mages clad in white robes and wielding scrolls, even though blinded, could still feel the shifts in the world’s order.
The vast magic array of Tiamat was shifting.
The whole world resonated.
In the distant Celestial Realm, deep within the sea of clouds, lightning occasionally fell, like a winding flame, illuminating the darkened sea. The pale electric lights filtered through exotic-style windows, casting shadows of craftsman patterns on the gaunt cheeks of William, who held a wizard’s piece, deep in thought, his face ashen.
He sat upon the throne of the Twelve Law Kings, the throne behind him stretched like a long shadow, the pinnacle of supreme knowledge extending infinitely toward the vaulted ceiling, filled with mysterious authority.
The old mage remained motionless, like a statue, his profound gaze fixed on the towering arch hall beneath the balustrade, his eyes deep like the presently turbulent sea of magic, nurturing endless fog. Clad in silver robes, mages passed through the emptiness of the hall, drifting past the heavy curtains that hung down from the arch beams, entering under the watchful gaze of three hundred and twenty eyes.
They raised their heads; above them, the members of the Silver Alliance, once languid, now frowned tightly.
No whispers or hushed conversations filled the air; a sense of ominousness prevailed.
“Citizens of Bud, great wizards, salute knowledge, salute truth!”
A voice reverberated throughout the hall, echoing back and then growing louder. A white-robed mage held a scroll high, defiantly questioning everyone:
“Who foresaw all this today, yet concealed the truth?”
“We demand an answer.”
“Is this the sign of that ‘Destruction and Rebirth’ foretold, or merely the sea of magic displaying its wrath once in decades? The borders of Tiamat can no longer contain the surging violent power, and scholars of the records alongside the Silver Candle Society have sensed the impending turmoil at each of the fourteen hundred nodes!”
“But what of our council? Are the elders still languid, the Eye of the Revelator?”
“Where are the staves of the Ten Realms?”
The mage vigorously waved his fist, like a challenge: “Since the War of the Saints, the reactions of the Silver People, the Bud, have been increasingly sluggish, as if those arrogant reptiles, this alliance is growing old; only a new spirit can revive it!”
“Change is coming; shall we miss this opportunity again? The Silver Elves have appeared; according to that ancient tongue, we should also demand self-cleansing and renewal!”
“I request—”
“Activate the arbitration process—!” More voices cried out, and the hall was momentarily abuzz.
That twisted face seemed to morph from excessive anger, silver hair cascading down and with a benevolent expression; the old man shifted his gaze from the exaggerated features below him to the wide-eyed council members, unable to suppress his boredom as he tossed the queen piece onto the chessboard.
With a thud, the chessboard seemed to come alive, the black and white squares transforming into a mire that ensnared William’s bishop, slowly consuming it.
“Those fellows are getting increasingly ridiculous, Isaac’s disciples,” the old man sneered, his face filled with disdain for the triviality. But had he not spoken or sat on this throne of the Twelve Law Kings, wearing the distinctly purple robe marked with lightning, who would have guessed that this old mage, appearing merely as a human elder, was Solomon, king of knowledge, the head of the Twelve Sorcerers of the Silver School.
In his glory days, his voice was truth, his actions laws; on this earth, he epitomized power and knowledge. Mortals believed he had become a deity, but he still considered himself a mage.
“Words sound better than actions; isn’t that always his style, ha ha. Let them raise a ruckus; the Fros Society desires more influence over world affairs; doesn’t it say that ‘with great power comes great responsibility’? Isn’t that their mantra?” William smiled, his pieces shifting uncertainly: “Of course, they aren’t wrong; it’s their responsibility, let them handle it; mere youngsters—”
The old mage tapped his piece lightly on the table, and the chessboard and pieces instantaneously morphed into a pool of silver liquid, quivering slightly as if fearing William, swiftly flowing off the table to escape into the darkness.
Only then did the elder raise an eyebrow, laughing heartily: “However, the Silver Elves are not to be underestimated; we only need to manage our own affairs.”
Yet his brow knitted at this thought, a frown forming in his aged yet wise gaze, he pursed his lips and added sternly: “But one must distinguish between friend and foe; if certain opportunists believe they can hijack the council, they will receive their due. The Alliance of Natas was sworn by mages placing their hands on the Book of Knowledge, where knowledge and power have never parted; law is maintained to uphold order, but ultimately, it’s still a few imposing sanctions on the many, and no one can question the authority outlined in the statutes of the Silver Alliance.”
The silver-haired elder was unmoved by these words, furrowing his brow, staring at the few remaining pieces on the table—outside, the lightning danced across the clouds, occasionally illuminating his face and the fine wrinkles on his forehead—finally, Solomon raised his snow-white brow, looking up angrily and declaring: “No, you ought to have lost this game, William.”
“No way!” William raised an innocent eyebrow, denying like a child: “I still have tricks up my sleeve.”
Solomon squinted at his old friend.
“Oh come on, old friend; look, playing chess is merely a way for mortals to pass the time; we’ve wasted too much time on it already. We have both passed the age of arguing over winning and losing; everything is orderly yet chaotic, but ultimately returns to one. In some aspects, those of Everything Returns Society are not wrong; they just don’t understand that everything exists for a reason, that the course of the world is predetermined; any alteration by others will disrupt the original balance, and there is no right or wrong, everything follows its nature.” The old mage hastily laughed, diverting the topic.
“Hum,” Solomon, witnessing his old friend back down, also chose not to pursue that line of conversation: “But thanks to you and Turiman, the anomalies in the sea of magic were promptly discovered in the Loop of Trade Winds, or else those fellows would have found a way to expose us. The council may not be shaken, but it will be embarrassing—Tiamat’s rules do have imperfections; mortals rely on Martha, while we can only rely on ourselves.”
But he raised his head again and asked: “However, I truly wish to ask, what are the intentions of that lord of Mithril Fortress?”
“Turiman?” William suddenly visualized the face of a young man: “He still remains in Erluin; you know, human emotions are a peculiar thing, homeland, nation, kinship, and friendship—Turiman’s life in the mortal world has changed him to some extent; he probably intends to assist that small nation.”
As William spoke, he turned his head just as lightning struck, reflecting the blazing light in his eyes.
“It’s too easy to say that, old mate. Even the Silver People have emotions; they just aren’t as overt,” Solomon replied, crossing his arms. “However, your motives shouldn’t be so simplistic; aside from the Azure Spear, have you discovered anything else?”
“Not exactly a discovery; find is a serious term. I should say I happened upon an interesting little fellow, reminding me of a departed friend. Ah— you’re right, the Silver People do have feelings,” William smiled slightly: “In my early years when passing through Erluin, I encountered that departed friend; unfortunately, human lifetimes are far too short.”
“Indeed, whether it’s the lion-like ambition or the steadfast belief of the white oak, they will ultimately be forgotten as time passes in the human world. Laws differ because those based on emotions are fragile, only truth remains constant,” Solomon replied indifferently, laced with a unique pride of the Silver People.
“That fits your style to some extent, but we can’t help but be influenced by emotions, much like this matter I’ve entrusted you with. While I’m away, it’s best not to let the radicals gain too much support; I suspect a war, but the Bud and Silver Elves aren’t prepared yet.”
Solomon didn’t respond, merely gathering the chess pieces on the table, even as William straightened himself beside him.
Outside, amidst the violent storm and lightning crackling, William extended his hand, and the staff flew from the corner, securely landing in his grasp.
Only then did Solomon ask: “I haven’t asked yet, where do you intend to go, especially at this time?”
The old mage adjusted his hat, the shadow of the wizard’s hat obscuring his face, revealing only his long silver beard: “I felt a monitoring node shift; if I’m not mistaken, something interesting might occur.”
“Ah, I see.”
Solomon raised an eyebrow.
The speeches below continued to peak in fervor, but alas, the listeners were disengaged.
…
Dark clouds swirled across the skies, pouring rain from the gray-white bay to Roshal Avenue. Fortunately, the Roshal people had long anticipated such weather when they built the city, establishing comprehensive drainage systems along both sides of the avenue. Rain clouds, after summoning torrents every summer from the Sea of Eternal Death, were blocked by the Cloud Hanging Mountains, collecting as rainfall, steadily descending. However, this year’s rainfall was particularly abundant; flash floods had already destroyed many bridges, and a group of knights dashed through the rain curtain, trudging along the muddy paths of the mountains.
In the downpour, both man and horse were clad in sky-blue battle cloaks. The emblems on the cloaks depicted the nine-headed serpent of Queen Wind, and most knights wore armor in an elvish style, with pointed helmets revealing sharp ears and pale blue hair, confirming their identity.
“Lord, it’s right ahead,” a loud voice called out, barely audible over the clamor of the rain.
“Did any of you see what it truly is?” The only tall elf in the group turned on his horse, the links of his chainmail clinking loudly, but he ignored these details, asking in a serious tone; his armor was particularly exquisite, a pale magic flowing within the engravings that repelled rainwater entirely.
The tall elf turned back, observing his attendants with a stern yet handsome face, his sky-blue eyes reflecting unease and worry.
“A fireball, my lord; it must be Tears of Shara,”
The knights stood in the rain, exchanging glances, unaware of their lord’s concerns. Wasn’t it just a meteor? The mortals below thought meteors were the tears of the enormous dragon in the sky; only a few witches believed it was an ominous sign.
However, crystallized meteors often originated from the sea of magic; burning meteors would soar through the forest, sometimes igniting wildfires, yet the meteors themselves contained great amounts of magical crystals—a massive fortune sending flames of excitement through each knight’s heart.
Yet the tall elf remained silent; the world might focus on these details, but few noticed that since the blooming flowers and summer leaves, the occurrence of Tears of Shara had significantly increased.
There had been over thirty sightings in Roshal alone.
He recalled the data displayed in the records; those figures were meaningless to an ordinary person but appeared like daggers embedded in the map, shimmering with a chilling light to one of his status.
The Tiamat Rule was weakening.
But how could this be?
Marquess Stofin turned back, staring into the tumultuous magical tide at the horizon. The azure-blue light seemed reflected in his eyelids, appearing a bit dim. Those knights beside him were ignorant of his true identity; the commoners believed that a noble like him, hailing from the central province, was simply a coward, unaware he was a Night Song Knight of the Temple of Queen Wind. It was laughable.
The borders of Saint Ausoor were becoming increasingly unstable, yet most nobles of the elf court stubbornly believed it was merely disturbances by the undead, not realizing Madara had the energy to instigate two wars simultaneously.
He had a nagging feeling that things were not that simple.
The report from seven months ago clearly indicated that the number of magical creatures at the borders was increasing, to be exact, their breeding speed was astonishing. Lords from various lands reported dozens of attack incidents, but those below suppressed them for appearances.
Such tricks may have deceived the elf court but could not fool the secret knights of the sanctuary. The priestesses had mentioned several times that the great magic tide may simply be a manifestation, and he, like King Summer, Shagrifen, shared their suspicions about another possibility.
“I hope Fanzan can relay good news back; the Temple of Fire is truly declining, mired in a small quagmire of Erluin.”
Stofin silently buried these thoughts in his heart, glancing at his temporary attendants, whose faces displayed indifference; he turned and unsheathed his sword, the blade shimmering in the rain: “Be cautious of the ghosts in the forest; we proceed.”
The knights all responded in unison, turning forward.
But only Marquess Stofin was shrouded in a veil of shadow. He looked up at the foreboding black forest ahead, like a gaping mouth ready to swallow everything.
In the pouring rain, he shivered violently.
…
(To be continued. If you enjoy this work, feel free to visit qidian.com to cast your votes or monthly tickets; your support is my greatest motivation.)
